The design isn’t quite finished yet, but everything is going to be posted over there from now on so I don’t lose comments etc.

http://awritingpassion.com/

The darkness disappears abruptly – the world flipping over like the egg Eric had enjoyed earlier this evening. He smiles and jauntily stands. Then, he falls – the stairs now above, the ceiling below. It was an unusually long fall, but soft in its approach. Of which Eric was grateful. He musters his most sober expression, the faint lull of his consumption retracting any sense of dignity he hoped to acquire, and stands. He was still in the staircase, he was sure of that. And yet, here he was, on the ceiling. It felt normal; it just bloody well didn’t look it. The door to the toilets opens, a man with a buzz cut starts walking down the stairs (the stairs now Eric’s ceiling) as he zips up his fly. He’s looking down.
“Watch it!” Eric says, the man only a couple steps from head butting him.
The man looks up at him. “Watch it yourself. What you doin’ up there?”
“I dunno. I was–’
“Must have been an updraft, mate. Happens to the best of us.” He ducks down beneath Eric and continues to walk down the stairs. “Good luck!”
“Aren’t you going to–” The door slams. “–help me down?”
Eric stumbles to the door, but, just as for Alice, it’s not as easy as it seems. The door starts, or rather ends, just below his shoulders. He stretches up but the handle is an inch too high. It’s at times like this he misses his wife; she’s always there to give him a leg up in life. He grips on to the doorframe with one hand and heaves himself upwards, swiping his hand across to the handle and pushing. The door opens slightly. He stops it from closing, and hoists himself over the frame, falling to the ceiling. He swears, every person in the room stares. Oh, the silence.

They all turn back to their drinks and the silence is no more. Except for one. He walks out from behind the bar, a polishing cloth hanging from his shoulder. “Drink mate?”
Eric laughs. “You’re crazy. Help me down?”
“How about…”He pulls a bottle of oversized scotch from inside his jacket and a shot glass from his pocket. “Shot of this will do you good.” I have no idea how that bottle fit, whereas Eric was too focused on the idea of alcohol ingestion to contemplate the proportion perspective problems. He pours the scotch into the glass, scotch dribbling down its side. “Here.” He smiles. “Oh…” He snatches a slice of lemon from inside his jacket. “Now that’s better.” He returns to behind the bar and bends down, standing up a second later with an undersized ladder in hand. The barman places the ladder beneath Eric and climbs it. At the top he stretches out on to his tippy toes. “Here you go, friend,” he says. Eric snatches the shot glass away. Amazingly, it’s still full. Eric gently holds the shot glass, gazing at it lustingly. He brings it to his lips, the warmth of the scotch already felt deep in his throat. He pours. It caresses his tongue, then swindles his expectant throat. He chokes, his eyes watering. The scotch pours out his nose. The barman holds the scotch bottle beneath, catching every last drop.
“Rude,” the barman says. He climbs down the ladder, the bottle disappeared. I’d say cheap magic trick, but there’s no sleeve big enough. He heads back behind the bar. Eric has tears, whether because of the burning of the alcohol, the disappointment of no alcohol or a sudden thought of what his wife might be drinking at this very moment, I’m not sure. He wipes those tears with his sleeve. Eric reaches for the ladder desperately. He jumps, hitting his head against it. The ladder crashes to the ground. The barman turns and smiles. “Cheer up, mate, we can always try a gin. You like gin? It’s my favourite. And if it comes out ya nose, more for me then ey? My mother always said –”
“Shutup!” Eric runs towards the exit. There’s a big sign saying exit by the way. I love those signs. Always have. Eric runs more like a sober man now than a drunk one. He dodges the fans along the way, each cutting dangerously to his left and right. Strangely, the air’s as still as a pond. As he nears the exit he speeds up then jumps – his hands just make the sign. He pulls himself over and grabs the doorframe. He pushes outwards, falling outside. He falls backwards through the air. He reaches out for the side of the building, the bricks passing him without a slight handhold for purchase. He cries out, this time I know exactly what he is thinking. His wife would be waiting, and he was never coming home. After all, it was where he always ended up. What he wants most when everything else failed him. He cries then. In absolute desperation. And the world rights itself. He screams as he falls, in both relief and terror. He will always have the scar to remind himself of when he came down to Earth. Oh, let’s not forget the memory of that hangover either.

I hate that I’ve fallen behind.

Oh, and the next story is called ‘The Nowhere Stairs’ – it replaces ‘That Typical Soapie Mix Up’ which I might try and write later on. It just wasn’t working, especially in 1200 words.

The writing of ‘The Nowhere Stairs’ has required diagrams. And headaches.

I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because…to me…it’s as if I’ve watched each story on television. I have the memory of the images I’ve seen imprinted on my brain. The characters hang around, having tea parties or god knows what in my mind. Well, that sounds a little insane. What I mean is, the characters don’t start or end with the story. They just simply exist, and they always will. The story is just a moment of that character’s existence.

It’s incredibly hard to describe the relationship between a writer and their stories.

I constantly refer to character as ‘they’ or ‘him’, ‘her’ or by name…in such a way that it’s like I had no control over them. For example, in relation to a character in my upcoming story I could say…’I love how she talks about how she looks like she swallowed a watermelon…and then proceeds to tell us she could see herself trying to do just that because she loves watermelons.’

Is that crazy? Maybe.

Who cares, just enjoy my writing (not to say it’s good…or bad…oh god now I’m being vain. Sigh.)

Here it is again with a full stop: ‘There are two babies growing inside my belly. I say growing but sometimes it feels like they’re spending all their energy hosting the gymnastics events at the Olympics.’

And, finally, a semicolon: ‘There are two babies growing inside my belly; I say growing but sometimes it feels like they’re spending all their energy hosting the gymnastics events at the Olympics.’

Do you see what I mean? The semicolon comes across as rigid and formal. Whereas the dash feels more…colloqiual almost. We talk with dashes all the time. For example: ‘Hey, umm – what’s your name again?’ You pause substantially longer than a comma and yet a semicolon just doesn’t seem to portray the fluidity of it either.

In the end, though, anyone who makes a fuss about the grammar of a story because it is ‘wrong’ or ‘non-academic’ should think whether it serves the purpose and whether it is obvious what it is doing. That is the main drive of a fiction piece’s structure and style…to communicate in the best way possible for the pieces intended aim.

*The long dash that is used similarly to brackets/commas in separating a dependent clause from it’s independent sentence, to show a person’s speech/thought has been interrupted or to connect two related sentences where a full-stop would be too strong.

Also…because of this change and due to a realization that an idea would better suit a longer word count…here’s a different list of upcoming titles:

‘That Typical Soapie Mix Up’, ‘Line Drawings’, ‘Double ‘O’ Aussie’ and ‘Hostage’.

I hope they spark some interest so you all return to read them.

Happy Monday!

It was a normal Sunday afternoon, a bit chilly, a cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other, when the phone rang. Not the one with pink fluffy bits, just a boring old one. Wait, it might have been Perry Smith’s first mobile. Point is I got a call. I stubbed out my cigarette and hurried to the phone, cuppa in hand.
“Yes?” I said.
“Is that Miss Jackson?”
“Perhaps. Is this a telemarketer?”
“No, Miss Jackson, it’s Randy Phelps. I left a voice message on Thursday. You made a query in regards to the estate sale?”
I grinned. “Oh, ohhh. Yes.”
“Well, I’ve decided to let you have a private viewing tomorrow morning at around ten, if you’re not held up with work.” I scuffled through the paperwork on the phone table (sadly unrelated to any known murder), found a pen and wrote down ’10 – Mon.’
“No, no I can make it. I have the address. I’ll see you then, ahh, Mr. Phelps.
I quickly dialled work. No, I don’t have swine flu, I said, but yes I am contagious. They gave me the afternoon shift.

21 Ricket Terrace didn’t appear to be the most exciting house. In fact, the mailbox was more thrilling. It turned out it wasn’t for sale. I’ve always thought if I wasn’t into murderabilia, I’d be into mailboxes. I knocked just once and the door opened. Randy Phelps was your typical suburban man, his son a blip in his probably nuclear family plan.
“Morning, Miss Jackson.”
I grinned and did a jump-skip inside – it had been far too long since my last estate auction.
“Shoes?” I asked.
He nodded and walked down the hall. I tore my right red high-heel off, hopping uneasily as I struggled with the left.
He turned back and asked, “would you like a drink before we start?”
“Yes, yes that would be nice, thanks.” I smiled, throwing my shoe to the ground.

We ascended the stairs, at first I defeated two steps at a time but Mr. Phelps insisted I slowed down. He said he was in no hurry, but I knew he was just old. Downstairs had been nothing special, I struggled to maintain a feigned degree of interest as he showed me room after room. Even the coffee we had was lacklustre. However the house was a glorious triumph of colour and wood, the carpet like a pillow beneath my feet. Although obviously new the place had a distinctly churchy smell. Kind of ironic really. We meandered down the hallway, finally stopping outside a closed door. Mr. Phelps seized the doorknob, his hand wringing it like a stress ball. “Would you like a hand?” I said.
“Sorry, I just…well I haven’t been in here since. His sister cleared out what we wanted to keep.”
“Oh.”
It opened. He smiled and motioned me to enter. “Sorry again,” he said.
I strode in. The room was meticulously clean, not a crease in the sheets even out of place. I rushed to the centre of the room, pirouetting as I took everything in. I stopped, hopped on the bed and turned to Mr. Phelps. I coughed. “Ahh, I’m sorry to hear about your son murdering all those innocent people,” I said.
“Thank you. The trouble is to not blame yourself when –” He pressed his hand against his forehead.
“Headache?”
“Yes, yes it –” he mumbled.
I patted a spot on the bed beside me. He sat.
“That’s better,” I said, smiling.
“Sorry, but I think we’ll have to draw this a bit short. I must be getting sick. You know how it is this time of year.”
“Oh, quite,” I said, “How ‘bout you lay down and I’ll let myself out?”
“No, not here. This was where it happened you know,” he said, laying back and closing his eyes, “Murdered right under my nose.”
“Mr. Phelps, it is your fault and don’t deny it.”
“What? What did you say? I’m so tired. My head is pounding.” He groaned again, his hand raggedly ruffling his fringe.
I leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “Is his bed for sale?”
He was unconscious.

I searched the room. Most of the good stuff was gone, taken by the sister I presumed. I was searching through a phone book – he may have been a flower presser – when there was a crash behind me. I sprung up and spun around. Mr. Phelps had the handset with pink fluffy bits in his hand, having trouble dialling what I imagine was Emergency.
“What are you doing, Mr. Phelps?” I said, “here let me get that for you.” I smiled and gripped the handset. “Now hand it over, Mr Phelps.” I pulled slightly and it came free. “Thank you.” I pocketed the phone, dock and all. It was now implicated.

He turned out not to be a flower presser. I was quite disappointed. I didn’t bother with the bed; this one had only seen five murders, unlike my bed that had seen three murders plus nine rapes, which equals six murders by my reckoning. Besides, I couldn’t afford to pay removal.

Mr. Phelps stands right at the back of my collection, next to the vial of poison that killed him. He’s unique and yet so very ugly. I keep him in the recommended vat of alcohol and formaldehyde but I much prefer the phone – pink fluffy bits and all.

My name is Gorge. My mother forgot the ‘e’. Then she forgot to request a name change. I just don’t think it feels right to change it now, after all these years. Lucy returned the week after I first held her hand. It was a busy day; I ended up drinking coffee throughout one of the sessions. I’m sure there’s some form of ‘psychic etiquette watch’ that would be on my back about that. Again I held her hand, while the other fondled her purse nervously. This time she asked a direct question that – I’ll be honest – I wasn’t ready for.
“What is his name?”
The present world failed again, and I saw myself. I panted, my hand cupping her breast, her eyes searching mine for the love I wasn’t even aware of yet. I pulled away from my thoughts, reality reasserting itself around me.
I grimaced – I should of known why she’d returned. I considered creating a fake name – but that would have been cruel. “Ahh -”
“Oh. You don’t know. Well -”
“You don’t have to pay, no.”
She smiled. “Do you get out of your tent much Mister, ahh – ”
“Patrick,” I grinned, “well, Gorge Patrick. Are you asking me out for a coffee, Lucy, because I really would love one?” On reflection, my curiosity got the better of me.

Breakfast was the staple of our day, without it everything else fell apart. We both worked – I started to do readings outside cafes, she was a microbiologist – so breakfast was the only time we had alone. It was May, almost a year after we married. Breakfast was pancakes – mine with syrup, hers with melted chocolate – when it happened again. Just like any other morning we ate naked, trying our hardest not to mention the long day of work ahead of us. It was her rule, you see. Once I broke it and she threw a pancake at me – chocolate and all; you can see how nudity and breakfast can pay off.
She pointed at the jar in front of me. “Syrup,” she said.
I smiled and held it out to her. Her hand caressed mine as it encased the jar – still a perfect fit. The jar felt hot – I let go. It seemed to float before me, I thought to catch it but then I saw. The future unraveled before me like the  I watch as somebody stabs her, yet I can’t see them. I run to her quickly, but too late – in my arms, she dies. The jar smashes.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, just an uneasy hand, I guess. I’ll clean it up.”
We were both late to work.

I didn’t get any work done that day. I knew how my relationship with Lucy would end and it scared me. Now the worst was the only thing in my mind. I tried to console myself with the good times before it ended, but I knew they would be tainted. Every time Lucy would touch me I remembered one day we could touch no more, and I dreaded I’d see the future once more. I couldn’t tell her – that would be cruel – so I pulled away. We grew distant then. Lucy scared me, so very much. I resented her. I loved her.

You’re probably wondering when it happened. How it happened. I came home from work, a few years after I had that vision. I returned from work late one night, it was a stressful day. Lucy was in the kitchen, eating her dinner. I opened the microwave.
“Did you do a plate for me?” I said.
“Oh, sorry, forgot.”
Lucy, ever thoughtful, hadn’t cooked for me. I sighed and looked over at the sink.
“Dishes?” I said.
“Forgot.”
I heaved the dishes into the sink, a whole three days worth. I scrubbed a knife clean. She came up behind me, her hands either side of me, gripping my arms. They were so warm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I smiled as her breath tickled my ear. The water beneath me boiled, my vision blurred. I saw so much blood. Her wounds were deep. She cried after I stabbed her the first time. After that, she was as silent as a mouse. I had a shower then returned. I held her in my arms – her hand fit mine perfectly. The last time I laid eyes on her I knew we should never have fallen in love.

BTW when I said later today in the last post…I meant by Sunday. Really. Believe me damn it. God. Some people.

Mission: Write 6 stories between now and Sunday.

The titles of the upcoming stories are: Her Name Was Lucy – Murderabilia – Young at Heart – Line Drawings – Hostage

All are subject to change…of course

340 Days – 91 Stories – 500,500 Words